“She sounds like someone I’d like to meet,” Marena said in a low but serious voice. The thought of it made the blood rush to his ears. He wanted that. Would love to watch them together. Talking passionately. Speaking freely.
“I think she’d love you,” he said, certain of that fact.
She raised an eyebrow, considering him. “Why are you revealing this to me?”
Why was he? Was it an attempt to impress her? Show her he wasn’t like one of those cads that walked into her shop and disrespected her? No, it was more than that. He looked at her now, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity he saw things clearly. He could surmise how a person’s sense of themselves or their future could be changed in a moment. Because to him, now in this cellar, Marena felt like answers to questions he’d never thought to ask. And he wondered if she might see him the same way too. After a lifetime of glancing at people, Arlo had finally found someone who compelled his complete focus.
She was still waiting for his answer. “I’m not sure,” he said ruefully. “I look at you and the things you need to consider about your reputation, your name, your business. And I look at how things are for me, how they’ve always been, even before I become duke, and I feel like I’ve been spared having to become an adult in fundamental ways. How unfair that is.” He shook his head. He was making no sense. “This is coming out all wrong.”
“I don’t think it is.” She sounded alert, and her eyes were lit with anticipation. Marena wanted to hear where this went. This conversation mattered.
“To be ignorant of what occurred before you were born is to remain always a child.” It was out of his mouth before he could think about it, but instead of confusion, her eyes widened and her lips parted into a grin that made him feel like they were sharing a secret.
“For what is the worth of human life, unless it is woven into the life of our ancestors by the record of history?” she said, finishing the phrase that his grandmother had repeated to him his entire life.
“Cicero.” They said the name in unison, and he saw his own smile on her face.
“That is the sum of it.” He said, reaching across the table for her hand, needing to touch her.
Of course she’d know. Of course. He lifted the glass of Burgundy wine they’d been served with the duck and took a sip before asking. “And what about your family? How was it to arrive in gray and dreary London after a childhood in the sunshine of the tropics?”
She looked at him from under those long eyelashes, a shy smile on her lip, but when she answered, her voice was strong and self-possessed. “Different.” She shook her head, almost like she was sorting memories to share with him. “It’s funny to think it now, but until our parents told us we were going to England, I never really thought about it as a real place.” She smiled longingly at whatever she remembered. “We were in Havana at the time and had been there for a few years. It was after my grandmother passed away. My mother wouldn’t come to England without my grandmother, and she would not set foot outside of the Antilles. So we stayed until after.”
Her face crumpled a little, and he brushed his thumb across her palm, which he was still clutching. “Were you close to your grandmother? I couldn’t imagine losing mine,” he said sincerely.
“I was.” She smiled radiantly. “My grandmother, Azucena Mejia de Torres, was the one who introduced my father to botany. She was a famous root worker, you see? People would come from all over the West Indies to learn from her. That’s how I knew Madame Lemba. She had been my grandmother’s apprentice. Once I started working at the apothecary with my father, I had to learn about doing root work in England. My mother didn’t have the passion for it.” She sighed at the mention of her mother, but her wistful smile remained on her lips. “And my father could only teach me so much, as the work gets passed from woman to woman.”
“We both were taught about life by wise women with very strong views,” he said, feeling too much at once.
“We were,” she said thoughtfully, her eyes distant for a moment. Like they were fixed on a faraway memory. But when her gaze returned to him, there was heat in those gorgeous brown depths. “You have a breadth of hidden passions, Your Grace.” Her tone was enticing, and so warm the blood in his veins thrummed at the sound of it.
Arlo had garnered the reputation of being unflappable for good reason. He’d forgotten what it was like to let his guard down for anyone but his grandmother. Even the lovers he occasionally took never got much more than a few fucks and a goodbye. The world in which he lived put him in contact with women who never seemed to hold his interest for long. But for Marena, he wanted to bare himself.
“I’ll be glad to demonstrate how high my passions can run, darling,” he said, diverting the topic. Taking things back to the familiar grounds of seduction seemed like a safer alternative. Even if he hated himself for ruining the fragile, intimate moment. But then she made a small surprised sound and shifted in her seat, a tinge of red on her cheeks, and he was bowled over by need. He pushed his chair back, eyes locked on the mouth that now seemed to be all he could see, and stood.
“Arlo,” she warned as he tossed his napkin on the table and came to her.
“Marena.” He hardly recognized his voice, roughened by desire as he pulled her to standing. He didn’t know what he was going to do. The world could burn in the next minute, but right then his whole life whittled down to making this woman moan with pleasure. He bent to kiss her, their lips brushing. “I love those sounds you make, but if you stay very, very quiet, I imagine I can make you come before dessert arrives.”
He felt her mouth tip up. “You’re an astonishingly bad idea, Arlo Kenworthy.”
“The very worst,” he asserted as he kissed her, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She opened for him and his world again tipped on its axis. A man of thirty-five ought to have more composure when it came to a simple kiss, and yet his control ripped at the seams. “I’m very close to tearing this room apart or ruining your gown when I tumble us both to the floor.”
“Don’t you dare. My mother worked on this dress for months. She’d kill me, and don’t think she wouldn’t come looking for you in Mayfair.” He wished he could store the sound of this particular laugh in a music box so he could listen to it—happy, a little wicked and very, very aroused—when she was gone.
“I’m impressed by your mother’s skills,” he said, pulling back to admire the bright blue raw silk and tiny black seashells embroidered along the sleeve caps of the dress. The contrast against her skin was truly breathtaking. “And I thank you for advising me on this being her handiwork, else I would’ve done some damage. Now, let’s see how fast I can undo this row of buttons."
At that moment, he heard footsteps at the top of the stairs, and without taking his hands off her, he lifted his head and bellowed, “Whoever you are, do not come down those stairs!”
The scrambling was immediate, followed by the sound of the cellar door closing in haste. “I was looking forward to the dessert,” she protested weakly as he ran his teeth over her neck. “I didn’t come to be debauched in a cellar. I came to enjoy the best food in Paris.”